Last night I went to an industry party, which means I spent the entire evening dodging strangers.

Why? Because I can predict exactly when it will happen, and what will solicit the remark. I make great efforts to steer the conversation elsewhere, but tedious verbal gymnastics only delay the inevitable:

"You look too young to be a mother."

Sometimes this is a compliment, or a pickup line. But more commonly the sentiment is accompanied by crossed arms, puzzlement, dismay, and often, extremely rude questions.

Make-a-Wish and similar charities either did not exist or did not reach my hometown in the year I was diagnosed with two different kinds of cancer and a rare genetic disorder. If they had, I would have asked for something along the lines of a trip to England and a visit to the set of a certain science fiction television program.

But they didn't, so instead, I got a television of my very own. I curled up around the pain and the remote control and watched endless cryptic episodes of Doctor Who, wishing myself away. Anywhere, everywhere, elsewhere.

"Really poor children in really poor neighborhoods have no habits of working and have nobody around them who works." --Newt Gingrich

I was born and raised in poverty. Both of my parents worked full-time, over-time, and extra jobs from my earliest memory until the present. They have never accepted government aid or charity. They just work, and work some more.

I was talking to an old friend about a mutual acquaintance who stopped talking to me about ten years ago. She asked what happened between us, and I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "I didn't do anything, so I can't comment."

There was a disbelieving double take. "You don't know what happened?"

"I was't around, I wasn't there. I was literally not in the country."

More probing, more shrugging. I said "I didn't steal her money, kick her dog, or fuck her boyfriend. Though I could have, I resisted. Therefore, I did nothing wrong."

Yesterday I was at the grocery contemplating the phenomenon of Christmas pudding, a tradition that has survived modern concerns about hygiene, and an overall improvement in the gastronomic desires of the average Brit. I have never been offered a slice of the heritage dessert, but it is sold everywhere at this time of year, along with mince pies. Whatever they are.

Dimly, I perceived that the woman scanning my groceries was talking to me.

Some burlesque performers from Seattle are booked to play a venue in my London neighbourhood for few months this winter and a friend asked for tips on where they should stay.

My first instinct was to answer "give up all hope," but that isn't very friendly.

The truth is that England in general, and London in particular, features the smallest and proportionately most expensive personal living spaces of any city in Europe. This means that affordable housing is scarce, sublets are either nonexistent or marked up, and nobody has room to let acquaintances crash.

My 15 year old son came home today and said "Now I really have some ghetto cred!"

He had been walking near Brick Lane when two cops approached and said they could smell marijuana on his person.

This was patently a lie, yet the police, without any valid reason whatsoever, proceeded to search him. They also asked for identity papers (not legally enforceable in this country). Then they filed an incident report. All because... he is young, urban, and male.

We've all been joking about it - the experience is a rite of passage for inner city youth.

Here in the United Kingdom we don't have Halloween, or Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July.

This seemed like a real loss at first but everyone I mentioned it too was dismissive. They said, yes, but we have Bonfire Night: on November 5, all across the country, in towns large and small, people gather to light fires.

The practice has evolved over the centuries into a carnival, with rides and fireworks. To an outsider it would appear to be a leftover pagan tradition, a celebration of the turning of the seasons.

Pages

Hipmama.com is an independent online magazine bursting with political commentary and ribald tales from the front lines of motherhood. Providing a forum for fresh, authentic writing from the trenches of parenting has always been our mission.